


Brother Mine

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Sibling Relationship, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has long grown used to his younger brother's habits, and has made a habit of being there when no one else can or dares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother Mine

             The first thing that hit Mycroft as he entered the basement flat was the _smell_ , one of those sickly-sweet odours that hung heavily in the air and clung to the every fibre of his clothes and each strand of his hair like a swarm of insects.

             _1\. Decomposition, several days old._

             _2\. Odour has permeated the entire flat, but has not begun to bother the neighbours yet._

             _3\. Conclusion: Abandoned experiment.  Probably in the kitchen._

             The flat itself was a catastrophe of broken glass and papers even in the most traversable areas, and as Mycroft picked his way across the room, he carefully stepped over what appeared to be a box full of preserved cat foetuses.  Wrinkling his nose, he found the kitchen and the mottled, rapidly decomposing remains of a severed head.

             Grimacing, he slipped past the abandoned experiment, not stopping to figure out what it was that his brother had been attempting to work out.  The flat, he noted, was eerily silent with the exception of a white noise machine burbling away in the single bedroom.

             _The lavatory then._

             The elder Holmes brother made his way down the corridor, stopping in front of the cracked bathroom door, his eyes falling on the dull yellow stream of light spilling onto the floor through the crack.  As he pushed the door open, a long, thin forearm shot out from behind the door and pulled him in.  In the ensuing struggle, Mycroft quickly overpowered the other man and within seconds, had him pinned against the counter.

             They stayed like that for several seconds in a sort of grisly tableau.  Mycroft, his chest heaving in uneven breaths, his hair knocked loose into his face, his suit unbuttoned in odd places, his hands white-knuckled where they gripped his brother's bony shoulders.  Sherlock, pallid and emaciated, his eyes wild and dilated to the point of being nearly black in colour, his shirt hanging open, the tourniquet still tied off above faintly irritated needle tracks.

             Finally, Mycroft opened his mouth to break the silence, only to close it again as he was cut off by his brother, his voice cracking like a bull whip in the stale air.  "Yes, I _know_.  'Mummy would be disappointed.'"  The younger Holmes snarled.  "Not that it ever _mattered_ \--she was _always_ disappointed."

             Mycroft didn't respond, his dark eyes boring into his brother's face searchingly, and with a small cry Sherlock's entire frame seemed to crumple and pitch forward into his brother's arms.  Caught off guard, Mycroft carefully lowered both of them to the tiled floor, resting his back up against the wall.  "Sherlock."  His voice was quiet, almost hesitant as he spoke the other's name.

             "It's not _enough_ , Mycroft."  There was something desperate and almost terrified in the younger man's voice.  "I've tried _everything_ and I _still can't think_."  Long fingers tore their way through Sherlock's limp curls before tearing the length of tubing from his arm and throwing it across the room.

             Mycroft didn't ask.  He didn't need to.  So instead he stayed there on the bathroom floor of a dingy Brixton flat with the bright-eyed, skeletal wraith that was his brother clinging to him as if he would fall off of the earth if he let go.

             "I'm going to go _mad_ , aren't I?"  Sherlock's voice was suddenly very small and almost frightened in a way that was completely new.

             "Nonsense," Mycroft forced himself to reply quickly, "You're a Holmes."

             _Which means you've always been mad._   This last bit was added privately as Mycroft held his younger brother's trembling form to his chest on the bathroom floor, his fingers combing carefully through thick, black hair and silently counting protruding vertebrae. _  
_


End file.
